A Winter's Tale
by casandhistrenchcoat
Summary: Sherlock is born with ice powers and forces himself into isolation after using those powers to hurt his only friend. Based on Disney's Frozen. Special thank you to my friend addictedtothescript (tumblr.) for giving me the name!
1. Chapter 1

**I do not own these characters, nor do I own the legend. The characters belong to BBC Sherlock and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. The legend is from Disney's Frozen. Queen Elsa and the song 'Do You Wanna Build A Snowman?' belong to Disney.**

**'Do You Wanna Build A Snowman?' is the only song from Frozen I am using, and it is split into three chapters.**

**There won't be any relationship in this one, but I may write a sequel for it where they do act on love.**

* * *

The seven year old prince, John Watson, wandered the halls of the palace at the heart of London. He stopped at the dark wood door that had delicate snowflakes carved into the grain. His eyes lit up at the thought of who was on the other side, and threw the door open, making sure the door didn't hit the wall behind it. John ran towards the small, curly haired figure sleeping under the pale blue sheets and flopped onto the bed next to him.

"Sherlock? Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!"

He bounced on the bed a bit and pulled the covers off of the other boy. Sherlock mumbled something under his breath and opened his eyes. John watched the pale grey and blue eyes light up.

"John!"

A smile crept onto John's face, as Sherlock lept from the bed and closed the bedroom door.

"Sherlock, can we go out and play? The sun is up and I'm up and it's so lovely outside! C'mon c'mon!"

He hopped off the bed, grabbing Sherlock's arm and pulling him out into the hallway. Both boys stalked the halls in fits of held in giggles, trying their best not to make enough noise to wake both their parents and siblings. John pulled Sherlock into the secret hiding place between the wood panels of the great dining room and the guest living quarters when one of the staff rounded the corner. The smallish room was hidden well, only they and their parents knew of the spot. He pulled out the box of toys stowed in the shadows of the palace and spilled its contents onto the floor.

"You get to pick, Sherlock. I went first last time."

The other boy looked him up and down briefly before nodding and smiling, concentration etching the edges of his face. John watched as Sherlock glanced at each figure, no doubt going over the strengths and weaknesses of each. After a few minutes of careful speculation and awkward shifting from John, the other boy finally picked his figure, choosing the eighteen inch tall figure that was made in tribute to a local fairy tale. John put on a frown and did his best attempt at a mock Sherlock pout. "I wanted Queen Elsa."

Sherlock glanced at John and his smile faltered slightly. He took in a deep breath and met John's pout with a glare, showing him the icy blue shade his eyes had taken on. "John, you don't know the first thing about Elsa, other than she has ice powers."

Aghast, John shook his head and furthered his pout. "That's not true! I know more about Elsa than you think!"

Sherlock wrinkled up his face, and John sensed the challenge on the tip of the other boy's tongue. "Oh yeah?"

He stared into Sherlock's eyes, slightly mesmerized as the light eyes began shifting and taking on shades of turquoise and light blues.

"Fine. I will. Elsa lived with her sister, Anna, in a great palace. She was locked in her room because she couldn't control her powers and injured Anna when they were our age. In great fear, her parents locked her in her room to try and control her ice powers."

The air in the space took on a frosty bite, but John thought nothing of it and continued on.

"She was forced into isolation and didn't come out because she didn't want to hurt anyone around her. In her life, she showed the town her powers by accident and fled into the mountains, causing an eternal winter."

He glanced slightly at Sherlock across from him before continuing, holding back his shivers from the supremely cold air and snow swirling around him.

"The town believed it was witchcraft, and she always thought of her powers as a curse. They called her a monster because she had to power to destroy the town. A monster that controlled ice, if I remember the tale correctly." John concluded.

"I am not a monster!" Sherlock cried, balling his fists into his hair. The wind picked up and the floor was covered in snow. John saw the other boy shaking from fear as he let out a sob that caused icicles to form on the roof above them. He watched in terror as Sherlock's sobs got greater and the icicles above them began to shake. One was too loose and was going to impale the small, fearful boy below it.

"Sherlock!" John screamed as he threw himself towards the other boy to move him away from the impending icicle. Sherlock's sobbed ceased and he met the gaze of the boy on top of him.

"I'm sorry, John. I didn't mean for-I-I didn't-I didn't want to hurt you." The other boy stammered but John shook his head. He gazed around at the smallish space that'd been transformed into a winter paradise, clad in snow, ice, and icicles. "Sherlock, did you do all of this?"

"I think so."

John looked back at the curly haired boy below him. "This is amazing! Let's build some snowmen, or have a snowball fight!" He scrambled off of Sherlock and hopped around in the powdered white before flopping onto the soft pile and spreading his arms to make a snow angel. The other boy drifted into his view and chuckled when John pulled himself off the floor.

"What?"

Sherlock's smile returned once more before he giggling. "You have a lot of snow in your hair and you look silly."

John mirrored the smile, before dropping down to the floor and scooping up some snow in his hands. He rounded the snow into a rounded ball and saw the confusion etch Sherlock's small features.

"John, what are you-" John threw his snowball at Sherlock's face, knocking him back a bit. The other boy stared at him in shock, before the realization hit his face. He watched as Sherlock stooped down to pick up snow in his hands.

"Snowball fight!" John yelled, and grabbed handfuls of more snow to throw at his opponent. Their laughter filled the room as snow was launched from one side of the room to the other, some hitting their target and some failing miserably. John could see the concentration and frustration marking Sherlock's face. He threw a snowball at the other boy that hit him in the dead centre of his face. Sherlock reeled his arm back and threw with fury. John watched as the snow ball coming at him began reflecting the room around him. It was changing into ice. Panic grew in his stomach and the ice hit his head before he could move, flinging him backwards into the snow bank.

Sherlock's fury dissipated as he ran towards his motionless friend and began shaking him. Tears streaked his face again and the wind picked up once more. Panic arose in Sherlock know as he continued to shake his friend, the wind whipping his face and the snow falling heavily again.

"Mummy! Mummy! Help!"

The doors of the room flew open and Sherlock's mum and John's papa followed through the doors and crouched near the still boy. John's mum entered and scooped him up into her arms before carrying him out the doors. Sherlock's mother turned toward him.

"Sherlock, what happened? I need you to tell me everything."

"I made it snow and we had a snowball fight. I threw a snowball at him and my anger must've turned it into ice and it struck him in the head. He'll be all right, won't he mummy?" His words were tainted with tears and he collapsed into his mother's arms crying.

"He'll be fine dear. We're going to take him to get help, so you be good for Mycroft." She gave Sherlock a final squeeze and exited the room. The door closed slowly, and by then, the wind had died along with Sherlock's sobs.

John returned home within the next morning expecting to see a bright eyed Sherlock waiting for him to go and play again. He flew up the stairs and knocked thrice on the familiar carved door to the other boy's room. "Sherlock! C'mon! The suns up and we can play again!" John stood, waiting for the him to throw the door open, but was met with empty silence. He knocked on the door again.

He heard a small sob on the other side of the door. "Go away, John. I don't want to play anymore."

John shook his head and tried to open the locked door.

"Sherlock! Open the door!"

"No!"

"Stop being mean, Sherlock! I want to play!"

"Go away, John!"

The last statement was said with such malice, that John immediately let go of the handle to Sherlock's door. He stared solemnly at the door that stood between him and his best friend before sighing and walking away from the hall. John left the corridor and walked through the palace, settling on watching Mycroft chat with Harry. He tried making up what they were saying and making jokes about it, but it just wasn't the same without Sherlock there. He slumped against the wall and silently cried. In the end, it was Mycroft who found him passed out against the wall in peaceful slumber.

John returned to Sherlock's room the next morning and was shot down once again. He continued to press on and coax his friend out but was met with a new malice at each attempt.

Week after week, the same pattern went on. June brought a surge of depression, as Sherlock remained locked in his room for the duration of his birthday party. That night John cried himself to sleep, the fear of losing his only friend hanging low in his chest. July was just as depressing. Clear skies ment a happy John, but no Sherlock meant no one to play in the rolling green hills with, so he stayed indoors and drew little doodles of the happy times they spent in the fresh grass. August brought the start of school again and he was eager to begin his schooling once more. The work took his mind off the friend who was hiding himself. John was under the impression that maybe he could make new friends at his school, but no one was as amazing as Sherlock, and he found himself just as lonely. September arrived with a new friend named Greg. John spent his time with him, but always held the feeling of Sherlock's isolation within. October brought Halloween, where he and Greg dressed up like pirates. He even used the costume he was supposed to use with Sherlock. November was nothing spectacular. December came round, and with the promise of fresh snow, John covered himself in his favorite winter jumper that Sherlock had picked out for him just last year and knocked on the door once more.

"Sherlock? Do you wanna build a snowman? C'mon let's go and play! I never see you anymore. Come out the door. It's like you've gone away!"

An annoyed huff was the only response from the other side and John continued on, dancing slightly around the outside of the room. "We used to be best buddies, and now we're not. I wish you would tell me why! Do you wanna build a snowman?"

He peered into the small key hole before sticking his mouth near it for the other boy to hear him better. "It doesn't have to be a snowman."

John was met by Sherlock's soft reply from the other side of the carefully carved door. "Go away, John."

The familiar response struck him the hardest this time. Even at age eight, he could tell Sherlock had finally decided to cut John out of his life for good. He hung his head low and let a few tears stream down his face before moving away from the door and walking to his room just down the long corridor.

"Ok, bye."


	2. Chapter 2

**Whoa! Thanks for your responses! It means a lot to me! I honestly wasn't sure about the idea at first, but I'm glad you all like it!**

**I do not own the characters. I am doing this for fun.**

* * *

John sat solemn on the palace steps. He was supposed to be out playing in the fields and having fun with people his age, or so every person in the palace over thirty continues to tell him. The thought of running out into the same grassland without his best friend just didn't seem right to him. _His_ best friend. He certainly wasn't _Sherlock's_ best friend, so why was he still calling him his best friend?

The thought of calling anyone else his best friend stung. Hard. Greg was a good mate, sure, but he is nothing compared to what Sherlock was. This is useless. He was supposed to be accepting, not dwelling. John rubbed his face with his hands and entered the palace. The halls always seem too big for him now. Seven years without a brother-like friendship has definitely taken its tole on him. He sighed in resignation and left through the side door of the palace.

The town was bustling with seemingly endless people, everyone eager to say hello to the young prince. He politely nodded and shook hands, but was quick to get out of conversation and made his way through the winding cobblestone roads. John made way quickly to the edge of the city and headed up the steep hill that overlooked London. It was his and Greg's usual hangout spot. The hill was just far enough away that no one else would bother them unless it the need was dire, but close enough that neither of their parents worried about them straying too far.

"John! Where've you been? I haven't seen you in weeks!"

John turned slightly to see Greg approaching with two unknown women. Wearily, he smiled and waved. "I've been a bit busy the past week." He replied. One of the women sat down beside John as he gave his answer to Greg. The other woman sat beside her and Greg plopped down on the end. "Busy? You always complain to me that the palace is so empty." He retorted. John hung his head a little lower as he remembered trying to coax Sherlock out of his room for a week with no success. "Are these your friends?" John asked, hopeful for him to take the bait of the weak subject change. Greg narrowed his eyes a bit, but took the bait all the same. He pointed to the brown haired girl who sat down second. "This is Molly," He pointed towards the blonde currently sitting next to him, "and that's Mary." Mary gave John a small smile that he weakly returned. "Greg said you don't have many friends." Molly said. "We came to give you some more company." Mary added, leaning slightly closer to him. John smiled politely and shifted just a bit further from Mary. "I appreciate it." He mustered.

Molly and Mary smiled at each other before Molly spoke, Greg's hand wrapping around her shoulder. "You know, we couldn't believe it when Greg said he knew the Prince John." She gushed and he considered her statement. "Sometimes," he started, "I can't believe I'm him either."

He left a half hour later after sitting in an uncomfortable silence. The wind had started to kick up again, and John shivered as he entered the palace doors. He kicked off his shoes and they hit the tile, releasing a loud echo. With Mycroft out studying abroad, and Harry leaving to god knows where, the palace only contains one person close to his age who refuses to talk to him. He walked the spiral staircase, lingering his fingers on the treated dark wood and found his way at the entrance to the corridor leading to his room, which also contains a door behind which Sherlock lays. Slowly, John walked the hall, careful not to touch any spot on the floor that would cause too loud of a creak. He brought his hand to the door and knocked.

"Do you wanna build a snowman?"

John could already feel his mood lifting up just being in the presence of Sherlock's door and felt an uncontrollable burst of energy at the hope that Sherlock may come out.

"Or ride our bikes around the hall? I think some company is overdue. I've started talking to the pictures on the wall."

John walked towards the painting on the wall. "Hang in there, Joan." He winked.

"It gets a little lonely. All these empty rooms. Just watching the hours tick by."

He sat at the base of the grandfather clock that stood opposite the door and mirrored it's motions, making a click sound whenever it swung side to side and almost hit the wood sides.

John stayed on the floor, hoping he'd get some response from Sherlock on the other side, but all he heard was a paniced "_it's getting stronger_" and soft thud. He was on his feet at the first sign of distress and banged both fists against the carved door. "Sherlock? Sherlock, let me in! Are you okay? Sherlock!" He called through his pounding. The door opened a bit to see a glimpse of long black hair and an icy blue eye. "I-I'm fine, John. Please." Came the whispered reply from the other side of the door. John continued to press at the door, concern and worry threatening to engulf his stomach. "No, Sherlock. I'm coming in." He stated, shoving the door with more force. The wood grew cold, to the point of freezing, and John released his grip on the door from the fear of losing feeling in his hands. Sherlock slammed the door shut, taking advantage of John's slight show of weakness and set the lock.

He sat on the floor in front of the carefully carved wood and traced the edge of the snowflake on the door. The cold chilled his finger, but John didn't stop. A sinking feeling, the same sinking feeling he'd felt the day he'd realized Sherlock had shut him out for good, washed over him. He felt the tears start again but held them back. It was a bit not good for a fifteen year old prince to cry.

John choked on a sigh and stood, placing one hand on the door, relishing the cold bite that seeped through his hand.

"Goodbye, Sherlock." John whispered into the wood grain.

He left the hall in search of the same hidden spot where they used to play until they'd fall asleep. It was the only place he could really be alone. The room just held an air of happiness in it that he could never replicate anywhere else. Often, he slept there, in favor of having someone place him in his bed than lay their himself and wait for slumber. John always wound up with an immense feeling of depression when he stayed in his room. The fact that on the other side of the wall sat Sherlock, alone and probably lonely, was too much.

Night fell upon the castle and sleep was too far out of John's grasp to hope for it to hit. He slumped further into the wall, tensing at the thought of returning to his room, and favored roaming the halls of the palace instead. Shadows were thrown all throughout the palace and gave an uneasy feeling to the whole place. The great glass windows painted the grey stone work with deep ebony stripes.

From the corner of his eye, John saw something move in the darkness. He turned swiftly towards the movement.

"Who's there?" He called in the dark.

No response came, and John set out quietly to find the source of the movement. The shadow led him into the great dining room, where the windows covered spanned from floor to ceiling and let in the light of the moon. John stopped dead in his tracks as the figure passed through the moonlight coming in.

It was Sherlock. The silver stream highlighted his cheekbones and black hair as he glanced back, eyes widening when he recognized John.

"Sherlock?" He whispered, surprise marking his words.

Slowly, Sherlock backed away towards the table, grabbed something off it, and bolted for the second exit.

"Sherlock, wait!" John yelled, chasing after the shadow of the other teen.

He chased the figure all the way down to the corridor leading to his room. "Please, Sherlock! Please don't shut me out again!" John cried, stunning Sherlock's dash to a halt. He watched as the other teen turned to face him, big, sad, blue eyes boring into him, before he disappeared into his room once more with a small click of the door.


	3. Chapter 3

**All right! Chapter 3! I finally got it up and going. So, long story short, I had to worry about school, and work, and grades, and my cat's health before working on this, and I have no fracking idea how I managed to write those last two chapters. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter! Be prepared for the next one, for I fear Chapter 4 and Chapter 5 will be put up within the same day. Oh, and good news! I've decided I am most definitely going to be writing the sequel to A Winter's Tale once it's done. I am so excited, you don't even know. My excitement is borderline psychotic. I mean, I haven't even finished this one and I'm already planning the sequel, equipped with so much innuendo that I laugh inappropriately every time someone says "icicle." Enough of my banter, enjoy the chapter!**

**I do not own these characters, I'm just doing what I think might be fun. Comments are always appreciated!**

* * *

"No, no, it doesn't work that way! You can't just split up!" John shouted at his bickering parents. He'd heard them arguing in the hall way for the eighteenth time within that afternoon and had felt it time to step in to stop them from killing each other. His intention was only to stop their screaming and settle them for the rest of the day, but that notion was blatantly thrown out the window when he actually listened to their argument.

John's father tore his vile gaze from his wife to glare at him. "We can divorce, John. It's already done and over with. We head to Dover by morning," John's father spat and returned his gaze to his wife, "We'll split from there!"

John stood in shocked silence, mouth agape. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. They couldn't do this, could they? Once they're married, they can't split, right? John knew that wasn't true. Legally, they could divorce. They wouldn't lose their position in line for the throne unless the declined. His parents were fourth in line for the throne, behind Mycroft and Sherlock, neither of which have been seen in over five years. Should they decline, the throne would be his responsibility after Sherlock's parents were gone, at least until Mycroft returned from his studies, or Sherlock finally came out of his room. Tears stung at the corners of his eyes and threatened to fall. He grit his teeth and held them back. Twenty year old princes definitely aren't supposed to cry, but the longer he listened to the conversation, the more he wanted to let it all spill and make them see how ridiculous they're being.

"So, that's it then? We make one last final appearance in public and go our separate ways? I can't believe you'd even suggest something so dull it wouldn't even get us out the front door!" John's mother chimed in. Her voice hadn't raised in tone throughout the entire argument, but her words grew an underlying rage.

"Oh, look! _The Queen_ can do everything! Who needs a _King_?" John's father retorted in a bitter spit. He heard the words his parents were saying, but they all became jumbled and fuzzy in his head. John's parents commonly called themselves King and Queen within the palace walls, as it showed their authority over their children, but hearing it now, in this context, was unsettling. They're really leaving. How could they do this to him?

"I've been pretending to keep this marriage together until John was of age, but now? He's twenty! I don't have to live the lie of love every single miserable day anymore. I'm going to make an appearance in town to announce our leave, and we'll part ways." John's mother stated firmly.

Wait. What? That didn't make any sense. Weren't they just screaming about 'who needs a King?' How long had he been tuned out?

"But, you can't!" John stammered. "You can't leave me!...I-I mean...Wait. Did-did you just say you've been miserable for twenty years?"

John's mother's face softened slightly but kept its coldness. "We were going to divorce a few years after Harry's birth, but we found out I was pregnant with you. Now, you're old enough to take care of yourself, so we no longer have to endure the unbearable sight of each other." Her words curled with a venom off the tip of her tongue that turned his father bright red with fury.

"_I'm_ the unbearable one? You should consider yourself lucky!" He responded.

"Why is that?" She hissed.

"Because _you_ don't have to live with you!" John's father spat before throwing the palace doors open and calmly walking out.

John stood, frozen, as his mother huffed and gave him a small pat on the shoulder on her way back to the palace kitchen. He didn't know what to do. Didn't know what to say. Didn't even know if he could _move_. It was like his brain had collided into the Baker Mountain just outside London and was smashed to bits. Abandonment hit him hard in the stomach, washing over him and drowning him in its icy coldness. A lump formed in John's stomach, feeling the bitterness swell up in him. Maybe, he should just board up his door and shut the world out like Sherlock did.

Sherlock.

The sudden feeling to run to Sherlock's door rushed over him and his feet were already moving before he could process what he was doing. John held his breath as he raced the stairs, skipping them two at a time. He half ran half slid the length of the hall and passed Sherlock's despairing door just barely. The glance back over his shoulder at the familiar slab of dark wood reminded him of all his failed attempts at getting his once best friend, practically _brother_, to come out. Each passing second he grew warier of reaching out for the smooth, silver door handle. It was as if the door held a new icy bite like the snowflakes on the door were real and fighting against him. The old, familiar, tucked away flurry of abandonment, strengthen by this afternoon's events, and betrayal flickered through him, and he retreated his hand, backing away from the door and down towards his room.

The signature 4 a.m. chill gnawed John's bones as he shivered under his covers. Today was the day both his mother and father were announcing their splitting of paths. Permanently. He took in a shaky breath and tried to force the thoughts out of his mind by focusing his vision on the dull grey walls surrounding him.

The room was quiet and dimly light by the small fire in his fireplace. John vaguely remembered starting a fire in the fireplace last night. He swept a hand through his disheveled hair and let out a small huff as he realized how challenging the day was going to become. The moon light the sky with a silver tint that danced around the flickers of orange and yellow from the fireplace. It felt sort of...comforting. The fire, strong and fierce, was a magnet to the moon, cold and untouchable. A shiver shot up John's spine as he instinctively glanced from his door to the wall where Sherlock sat, no doubt awake doing who knows what. He revelled in the feeling of being like the fire and gained a solid foundation in his mind that, one day, he was going to touch the moon. John was going to get Sherlock out of his self-inflicted solitary confinement, for John was fire, and he was ice.

The sun arose, breaking the slow dance of the moon's light and brought the promise of a new, dismal day. John blinked the light out of his eyes as he more or less fell out of bed. His ungracefulness wasn't enough to disturb the palace workers, thankfully, and John walked towards the small enclave he called his closet.

His enclave was swamped with clothes strewn about, left sitting with the promise of being cleaned next time. John haphazardly threw on his formal attire consisting of a white suit jacket, a black button up, and matching white trousers. The day was dawning and he hardly wanted to delay the inevitable. John left the safety and warmth of his own room and strode down the hall, sinking in to his fake air of confidence he'd been working on for over four years.

Chilled air streamed in through the palace doors and the front gate opened, revealing the court to a town he hadn't seen in years. Meeting Greg's friends had been the last time he'd left the sanctuary of the cobblestoned court. Now, he'd get to experience the world thrust upon him. He took in a shaky breath before leaving through the gates, just barely in the shadow of his parents.

"Citizens of London, thank you all for gathering here on short notice," Sherlock's mum began, "Prince Henry Watson and Princess Anna Watson have an important announcement for all."

John's parents gave small smiles to the gathered crowd before Henry spoke up. "Due to withstanding incidents, Princess Anna Watson and I have chosen to divorce. We are declining the throne and are parting ways in Dover."

The smooth, practiced voice of his father did nothing to solve John's creeping sense of abandonment. The crowd bought into the fake dejective tone, but it was plain as day to John that relief was showing through. He kept his face straight, a mask to reveal none of his feelings and show some confidence for his people. Sherlock's parents casted a look of sympathy towards him before bowing their heads. John usually took a comfort from Sherlock's parents when times turned rouge, but today, it just didn't help.

Anna and Henry smiled at the crowd before striving forward towards the part between the group of people. John stood unmoving and watched them disappear over the hill where he used to lounge about all day in the grass with Lestrade. Tears prickled the corners of his eyes, but he refused to succumb to the instinct to run as far as he could. He was a grown man and he had to give the people someone they could look towards. Sherlock's parents were growing weak and someone had to be there when they passed on. Mycroft is off abroa 'studying'. Sherlock hasn't come out of his room for thirteen years. There's no chance of him being able to handle his duties, let alone come out to his coronation. No, it was going to be him. The Holmes brothers left him, and now it's his mess to clean up. John straightened his back and gave curt nods to the people before returning through the gates with Sherlock's parents following behind.

"John, we're sorry about everything that's happened." Sherlock's father murmured and his wife placed a small hand on John's shoulder. He shrugged in response, too fearful of what he might say if he spoke.

The trudge back to his room felt longer than he was used to. The familiar stone walls should have given him the promise of rest and the hope of a new day tomorrow, but it only weighed him down more. His room felt smaller than before, like it was collapsing in on himself. The shadows splayed across the delicate stonework as the sun went down and the moon arose. John's parents may have left him, Mycroft may have left him, and Harry may have left him, but Sherlock is still there on the other side of that wall. He hasn't lost him yet and now Sherlock's all he's got.

Two years passed by before the Queen began to show symptoms of tuberculosis. Her energy was seeped from her, her coughs echoed through the halls, and only select few were allowed to visit her. John knew what was coming. Very few were able to survive without advancements in medication. He stayed with Sherlock's mum each day, telling the old fable of _The Snow Queen_ night after night from his appointed distance away from her bedside. Spring brought in new boughs of flowers and took away the winter's snow, along with Sherlock's mum.

John couldn't bear to deal with her death. After his parents left him, she was the only comfort he had. Now, he's alone. Only Sherlock's father and Sherlock himself were left for him. Sherlock remained locked behind that damned carved door, and his father hadn't been seen in days. John's looked throughout each hall for him for the past six days, with no luck in finding the elder Holmes.

The funeral for King and Queen Holmes was held towards the end of spring. John was asked to give the eulogy. He would so with strength, reminding his people that they could trust in him to lead. The morning was full of overcast grey skies and John stared at his black tux, not bothering to hide his tears. He let them slide down his face in a greeting of warmth. The room seemed eerily quiet, and he placed a hand once fully dressed onto the delicate wall seperating him and Sherlock. Tears rolled out harder and he gasped for breath before regaining his composure and walking out into the court.

The grave site was covered in a sea of black. Everyone came to pay respects and not a single eye was dry, except for those of the children too young to understand what was happening. John watched everyone shuffle awkwardly as the noise from the crowd died down. He cleared his throat in an effort to maintain his composure.

"Thank you all for being here. It's, uh, it's a difficult time for all of us right now. King Sherrinford Holmes and Queen Violet Holmes were amazing people. Kind, sweet, and full of good spirit. It is depressing, yet endearing, to see someone love another enough, as the King loved his Queen, to commit suicide for bearing the though of being a moment without half your heart would be worse than death. The King and Queen, Violet and Sherrinford, were like family to me. No, they were family to me. The King told me once, that heroes don't exist. I was but ten at the time. I know now that they do, and it's in the little things that someone does that makes them heroes. I see them as heroes. They did more things than anyone else has ever been willing to do for me. They were there when no one else was, and for that, I owe them so much. If there were miracles, I'd ask for mine to have Violet and Sherrinford not be dead."

The tears poured down the crowds faces and hot lines streaked John's face. When the people dispersed, either to pay respects or carry screaming children away, John turned to the large, smooth rock marking the grave of Queen Violet Holmes and whispered, "Just for me. Thank you. I've never got the chance to say it, and I'll say it now."

He took in shaky breaths as he journeyed back to the palace, moving zombie esque towards the grand staircase and trudging his way up the stairs. The hall had a cold bite to it, and he welcomed the numbing sensation it gave him, forming goosebumps on his arms hidden underneath his tux. Sherlock's door remained locked but slightly more welcoming than it had been previously. John made his way to the carved wood and splayed his hand across the grain before knocking a few times.

"Sherlock?" He called trough the door.

"Please, I know you're in there. People are asking where you've been. They say have courage, and I'm trying to. I'm right out here for you. Just let me in."

John sank a bit lower as his legs began giving out from under him. The conversation felt more one sided than any other time he's talked to Sherlock.

"We only have each other. Just you and me."

John sank fully onto the ground, not bother to fix his weird angle. The dawning realization of how alone he truly was began frightening him, but he held it at bay.

"What are we gonna do?"

He considered what may be able to get Sherlock out from the other side of the door, but his mind was blank. John hadn't seen him in over seven years, counting the one time he saw him that night when he was fifteen. The memories of building funny snowman were loosely strewn throughout his mind. Sherlock may be twenty now, but it was worth a shot. Anything to lessen the tight knot in his chest.

"Do you wanna build a snowman?"

He leaned his head heavily against the familiar carved door, now faded, that was the only thing keeping him from seeing his best friend, and let the line tear stream down his cheek, as he heard the muffled sob from the other side.


	4. Chapter 4

**Whoo! That last chapter broke my heart just writing it! I want to apologize if I don't get my next chapters out within a timely manner. I'm doing massive overhaul on my When The Hunter Becomes The Hunted, meaning I'm basically starting it over and I'll be bouncing back and forth between these two.**

**Also, I have a very quick sketch I did of Sherlock, if you'd like to see something of what I pictured he'd look like about now. It's at the end of the chapter.**

**Anywho, I do hope you enjoy this one. Sir Boast-A-Lot makes an appearance.**

* * *

"Send word out to Prince Mycroft Holmes. Tell him he is needed back in London." John frowned at the messenger clad in black and blue perched on a matching black horse. "The sooner he's here, the better."

The messenger nodded tightly before snapping the reigns on his horse and riding down the outskirts of the town. John let out a small sigh. The first task of the day was done and now it was on to task two: Get Sherlock. By far, running the country on his own was a much easier fear than actually getting Sherlock to see the London fields again. But John's not going to be jarred so easily. He strolled languidly through the bustling people, watching them duck in and out of houses in dismal black outfits. Children provided the only source of color except for some of the gardens throughout. They ran happily about, blissfully ignorant of the state of disarray London was currently falling into. John envied them and their youth. He remembered once being that happy-go-lucky, but his bloodline determined his fate before hand, and ripped any fun away as he grew.

The children spotted him and their playing screeched to a halt. John saw it written in their faces. They could see the obviously tear streaked face. He knew they could. He wasn't stupid. No doubt these kids would be expecting abuse from his highness just about now. It's not like his parents set the best example for the Watson bloodline. John forced a smile and have the kids a small wave, but continued to walk on. If he was in his right mind, he'd have squatted down next to them and asked what they were playing, or maybe tell them the story of Sir Boast-A-Lot for the hundredth time. Sir Boast-A-Lot was an excellent tale. It portrayed the tale of a man who was all seeing and could look at you and tell you your whole life's story. He traveled the Isles with his trusty mate, Sir John Watson the Brave, and solved mysteries together.

The first story of Sir Boast-A-Lot was told to him when he was only four years old by the neighboring King of the Southern Isles, King Marion Moriarty. King Moriarty was, no, is the best story teller of all. He was very kind and continually visited London, until his son was born. That was the official kickstart of John's life going downhill and abandonment becoming his common friend. John shook himself out of his recollection. There is no point in making himself more deject than he already is. Thankfully, the palace doors weren't that far of a walk away from his current standpoint. He reached the palace gates quickly and shut them almost as quick behind him. No one was to come in through those gates, unless it was his messenger with word on Mycroft, the palace staff with daily necessities, or Mycroft himself. The presence of too many unnecessary guests would be too much for him.

John's thoughts assaulted him in the dreary light of the castle.

_What happened to I am fire? Why does everything have to leave me? Why am I the one that always has to clean up someone else's mess?_

He had no energy left to keep the poisonous words at bay. The past few days had washed salt over his fresh wounds, and now he was left weak and brittle. Easy prey for such self-loathing thoughts. John couldn't do anything but let them hit, wave after wave of filth encrusted venom.

_Is it my existence that drives people away? Am I not good enough? Maybe, I should just leave. I could leave the palace and just walk out of here right now. But that wouldn't be fair to the good people of this town. Who was going to keep them together? Sherlock? No, stay for them. Once Mycroft returns, I leave. I'm going to decline my spot in line for the throne. Then I'll hop on my horse and high tail it out of here. Maybe, I can catch up with the knights that'll most certainly be gone by the time I ride. I could fight in the war. I could be Sir John Watson the Brave._

John steeled his face and found new strength to withdraw his emotions. This new plan, to leave, is the best course of action. He'll be able to leave all of his pain and misery in favor of a new life. One that doesn't involve abandonment. Just the adrenaline and danger of war. For once, the past will remain in the past.

Footsteps jostled John out of his void like state. He recognized the small figure and smiled, actually smiled, for the first time in two months.

"Hello, Mrs. Hudson." John greeted her as he picked himself off the ground and engulfed her in a tight hug.

"John, it's good to see you too, although the only place I've been lately is the garden out front." Mrs. Hudson murmured.

John instantly released his grip and held his hands behind his back, feeling the scarlet begin to engulf his face. "I apologize Mrs. Hudson. It's just been so rough and…you're the closest thing I have to a parent right now."

A warm and friendly smile snuck its way onto Mrs. Hudson's face before she placed one hand on his face, cupping his cheek. "Oh, John. I've always thought of you as a son."

She released his face before following, "I should tell you, that messenger of yours. He's requested your presence in the garden."

John practically flew out the front doors, stopping only when he remembered that he'd just rudely left Mrs. Hudson in the hall.

"Uh, thank you, Mrs. Hudson." He yelled without looking back. All John could focus on was the fact that his fate laid before him in the garden. He'd either be king, or he'd get his chance to leave London, and fingers crossed it's the latter.

John pushed through the doors of the palace harder than necessary, resulting in a loud crash as the doors hit the carefully placed stonework adorning the outside walls of the palace. Light filled his eyes too quickly and he winced. When John's eyes came to, he blinked in disbelief.

It was Mycroft.

Is that Mycroft?

Yes.

That is definitely Mycroft.

John blinked in rapid succession, his jaw trying to form words but his brain unable to compute what stood in the garden amongst the soft grass. The eldest Holmes brother turned to the doors and smiled at John.

"John. I was on my way back when I ran into your messenger. It is a shame. I was rather fond of my parents." Mycroft smiled softly. "I hear there's a coronation to be held. When am I to do the honors?"


	5. Chapter 5

**This one will have the next chapter following soon afterwards. I'm very excited to write Sherlock's escape from London, as it will feature a variety of different languages. (Because what else are you supposed to do when you've isolated yourself for so long?)**

* * *

"Do we have everything planned and ready for this evening?" Mycroft asked, swiping some stray crumbs from their snack of scones off of his perfectly tailored suit.

"I think so." John replied while looking over the plans laid out before him. "Mycroft, look, we've been at this for hours. Can you at least tell me where you've been all this time?"

"John, you and I both know it's more complicated than that." Mycroft sipped his tea before continuing. "Even if I could tell you exactly what I'd been doing, I highly doubt you'd understand the complexity of the situation."

"You haven't changed much. _'Don't be smart Sherlock. I'm the smart one.' 'No one's as brilliant as I am!' 'Of course you wouldn't understand, John. Your brain's too small to compute.'_" John mocked.

Mycroft scowled and stood, buttoning his blazer as he did so. "I will be upstairs if you require me." He exited the room gracefully before yelling back, "Oh, and John…"

"Yes?"

"_Don't_ require me."

John rolled his eyes and began cleaning off the sitting room's table. Mycroft used to only be a regular git. Now, however, he's a right pretentious git. If John wasn't so ecstatic, he'd punch him square in the jaw. Mrs. Hudson probably wouldn't be too pleased with his course of action, but Mycroft would get what he'd deserved. John let out a small sigh.

No, Mycroft didn't deserve a right hook to the jaw. He might be a cold, heartless bastard, but most of the time he didn't know he was being rude. John remembered reading a study one of the people in town had been doing on the condition. Barry was his name. He called it 'Asperger's syndrome', after his son who suffered the same.

Mycroft might infuriate him and know just how to push his buttons, but John knew that Mycroft was his ticket out of London. He could leave, and it would all be done. Maybe he'd come back if he heard news of Sherlock reemerging into the light of day. No, that would null the point of leaving. He'd come back if he was needed or didn't like the thrill of danger pumping through his veins.

John genuinely smiled for the first time in two weeks.

He was free.

The coronation still came first though. Mycroft would have to be crowned King of England. Then John could take his horse for a ride out with the knights and just keep running. Maybe, if he was lucky, he could get Mycroft to sign off on his journey.

Things were looking up after all.

John took in a deep breath of air and let the excitement swell up in his chest. For the first time in forever, he finally had a chance to chase his dreams with nothing in his way. Carefully, John readjusted the stack of papers in his arms and carried them through the corridors to the house staff.

Over two hours of rigorous training and the staff was ready to go for tomorrow night. John had spent an agonizing hour and a half explaining to the kitchen staff and cleaning staff exactly what needed to be done in preparation for Mycroft's coronation, and the other half hour being poked and prodded by master seamstress who was determined to have John's suit perfect in time for the event.

John groaned in exhaustion when they finally left him alone to attend to the business to get ready for tomorrow. It all was seeming so real, as if someone had heard all those wishes he'd made on stars when he was small. The possibilities of what could happen at the coronation were endless. Finally, after so many years of controlled isolation, the palace gates were going to let the great townspeople in. Staff will open the big window shades once more and the great hall will be filled with light.

Maybe he'd even see Greg again. Maybe…maybe he'd be noticed by someone special. Someone to call his. Someone he could spend cold nights with in a soft bed with flickers of a fire in a fireplace.

No.

Not if it meant giving up his vision of danger.

John pondered over this surprising thought of his. If he were to meet someone he thought was The One, then, and only then, would he push his plans of danger on hold. That would work. It satisfied both sides of his mind's desires.

He strolled the palace halls a while, before settling in the hidden garden adjacent to the kitchen. John breathed in the fresh air and sat picking at the little pebbles in the dirt as he watched the sky shift from grey to blue to pink.

"John! What are you doing out here? Come inside. It's nearly time for supper." Mrs. Hudson called from the kitchen window.

Startled, John looked up and waved back in response. "I'll be in soon."

Mrs. Hudson muttered something under her breath as she closed the window, leaving him alone in the garden. John took one last deep breath of the fresh air and nodded towards the sunset before making his way back with the dawn of a smile on his face.

Inside, everyone was seated at the table in the great dining hall talking animatedly about tomorrow's coronation. John's smile grew ten times as he saw the staff's excitement growing. The house staff was positively glowing with news of the ballroom's use, and the seamstress staff was almost bouncing out of their seats describing the wardrobe for the royalty currently residing in the palace. He took his place at the seat next to the head of the table and joined in some small talk with the head physician of the palace, Mike Stamford, and one of the seamstresses, Sally Donovan.

The chatter died down when Mycroft entered the room. He pulled out his seat and stood at the head to draw everyone's attention to him. "I will start this speech by first thanking all of you. Not just for all of the rigorous effort you have been putting into getting the place presentable for tomorrow, but in regards to my absence too. It is because of you that London has not fallen apart at the seams, and for that you have my gratitude." Mycroft bowed before continuing. "You all have your duties for tomorrow, and I should hope you are prepared to handle even the worst of situations. We will be having eleven other nations in attendance to the coronation tomorrow. Be sure to address them as their respected titles. The last thing we want to do is offend any of our allies."

Mycroft picked up his glass of wine and held to all. "Thank you all, and I look forward to all of your planning set in motion in regards to tomorrow. Dinner is ready to be served."

At the precise moment they were given permission, the kitchen staff brought out the plates with food for everyone and passed them out accordingly. John looked down at his plate and smiled into the steam rolling off of his steak. As the night went on, he engaged in pleasant conversations with many of the house staff and even Mycroft for a while. When dinner was over and everything cleaned, John skipped down the hall to his room in a burst of excitement and glee.

It was the first time that he hadn't paused to look at the familiar wooden door that encased the second prince behind it.

* * *

_**"HE WAS A REGULAR GIT, BUT NOW HE'S A RIGHT PRETENTIOUS GIT." **_**I hope you've enjoyed "A Winter's Tale" thus far and are excited for the action to come! Spoiler: It's someone's time to make an appearance, and I don't just mean Sherlock. I'm beta-ing the next chapter now.**


	6. Chapter 6

**Big stuff happening this chapter! I am so so so happy with the responses from all of you. You make me feel so loved! I absolutely adore the fact you love my crack theory that Sherlock could be Elsa and continue to read the only thing I have for stress relief. Thank you all so so so much, and enjoy! (Oh, I should mention that there's going to be a switch in perspective next chapter, but only for that one. The rest still centres from John's POV.)**

* * *

The sun streamed through John's bedroom window. Prince John slept wrapped in his covers, moving his head now and then resulting in his bed head worsening. Sally knocked on John's door before calling through. "Prince John? Are you up?"

John sat up abruptly but didn't open his eyes. "Yes. I'm up."

"Good. Irene wants to see you in ten." Sally remarked before heading down the hall.

Footsteps were bustling up and down the halls. It sounded like a broom was working it's way across the floor outside. What was all this fuss about?

He sat for a bit in his blanket heap before fully registering what was going on around him.

It's coronation day.

_It's coronation day._

Instantly, John was out of his bed and through the door making his way up to Irene's wing. The signature smell of rose wafted from the hall marking Irene's main workshop, and he took a deep inhale of the scent before entering the through the light wood door. Inside, six women, including Sally, were busy working out wrinkles in three suits.

"You're early, John. I would've waited for you to eat breakfast."

He turned toward the soft voice of Irene to his right. Irene's rich brown hair was pulled back into a neat bun that was just as tight as she was.

"Irene, you need to calm down. I can see the tension outlining your smile. It does no one any good if you over work yourself." John soothed.

Irene gave him a small laugh and shook her head. "I have to run a tight ship until tomorrow morning. Things still need to be done and alterations need to be made. Come, John. Let's get you all dressed up for today." She placed her hand at the small of his back and ushered him into the adjourning room clear of everyone else. Irene left momentarily and returned with a black silk blazer, adorned with matching black trousers, black waistcoat, and dark blue cotton button up.

"Call me back in when you're fully dressed so I can see how it fits."

John nodded and began stripping off his pajamas. He stared down at his stomach and gazed at his reflection in the mirror. He looked fit. John gave his reflection a nice wink before getting his suit on.

Irene returned when called and gasped. "Oh, John. You have to see yourself." She left quickly to gather one of her other seamstresses to help her make any altercations.

John turned towards the mirror and gaped at himself. He was…good. Looking, that is. The black was smooth and sharp, and the dark blue really brought out the blue of his eyes. His trousers were cut well and made him look taller when put together with his blazer. When Irene returned, John couldn't contain his smile as they sewed up a small hole towards the bottom of the pants.

"If you see Sherlock, tell him to come to Irene's as soon as he can." Sally commented.

The words took seconds that felt like hours to sink in.

Sherlock was out of his room.

Sherlock. Outside. His. Room.

John thought it would be impossible for his excitement and smile to grow, but was proven wrong when he realized he could finally see Sherlock again for the first time since he was fifteen. He flew out of Irene's wing and ran through the great hall where the windows were being opened again, through the ballroom where the throne was being set along with a table for some finger foods, and through the art hall where his only friends for the longest time resided.

For the first time in forever, all the beautifully crafted salad plates were going to be used. For the first time in forever, music will flood the halls mixed with merry laughing and chatter. For the first time in forever, John won't be alone.

The staff was busy working in the other rooms and rarely passed through the art hall. John jumped and twirled through the room in pure bliss. Sherlock was out, he can leave, he won't be a prince tomorrow, he can write his own story.

John snuck his way through the packed kitchen and crawled out through the window into the garden next to it. The area was inviting and friendly, no longer dismal and dreary. He bent down to run a hand through the grass and found himself sprinting and jumping around in the field out front.

Staff was running in and out of the palace doors, and John sat himself near the fountain to wait for the gates to open to let the public in. The gates were the only things separating from the chance to change his world.

An unfamiliar voice rang out through the corridor in a deep, rich baritone.

"Open up the gates."

John turned to identify the mysterious voice and froze.

There, standing between the open doors, was Sherlock. He'd grown tall and stood about six feet with not a single slouch to his stance. The slight breeze barely rustled the perfectly tailored white blazer and trousers, turquoise button up, and black waistcoat. He was exactly what John would picture as a prince, especially with his black cloak dragging slightly behind him. The black braid had only gotten longer and somehow made him look more mature than his age.

The smile John had been harboring turned into a wide mouth grin and he found his legs moving without his consent. He was running towards the pale prince as fast as his legs could carry him and only saw the surprise on Sherlock's face half a second before tackling him down to the ground in a fierce hug.

"Get off me!" Sherlock hissed.

"No."

John squeezed the lanky figure below him harder and refused to let go for the fear that Sherlock might lock himself away again.

"John, I can't breath."

"Oh, sorry."

He relented on his squeezing enough for Sherlock to breath, but not enough for him to fight and run.

"John, we're going to be late for Mycroft's coronation."

"Don't care."

Sherlock's chuckle was deep and reverberated through his chest, making John feel oddly at home. A hand patted at the nape of his neck.

"We should at least be present for Mycroft's coronation."

John sighed and got off Sherlock, extending a hand towards him and gripped the other man's white glove with a strong hand to pull him to a stand. Sherlock brushed some of the dirt off of his suit with his right hand and tried to pull his left hand away, but John wouldn't let him off that easily.

"How do I know you won't run off somewhere again?"

"Really, John?" Sherlock let out a huff and met his gaze for the first time in years. The icy blue of his eyes hadn't died at all. If anything it got stronger. John took a small gulp to speak, but Sherlock cut him off. "Will it make you feel better if I let you hold my hand?"

"You make it sound childish."

"That's because it is childish."

John smiled a bit at that. "Yes, it would make me feel better, no matter how childish it is."

Sherlock smiled as they began strolling through the main hall and towards the church. When they reached the large, carefully carved doors of the coronation to start, John dropped Sherlock's hand.

"Just promise me you won't go anywhere I can't follow."

Sherlock's smile warmed as he stared down at John.

"I promise."

John beamed up at the taller man and pushed through the door to take their place in the church.

After the coronation ended, and Mycroft was King, the ball began in full swing. String music filled the air and candles lit the grand hall with an ethereal light. John marveled at how well everything came together after only one day of planning. Sherlock had joined the string players with his violin to play a few songs for the guests, leaving John to be incredulous on his own.

The orchestra took up a slower dance song, driving everyone either away from the dance floor or in search of a dance partner. John decided he might try to find someone to dance with and turned to leave walking straight into a princess from the Southern Isles. Somehow, he managed to catch her before she hit the ground and John helped her stand up again.

"I'm sorry." John stammered, "I didn't see-" He paused mid sentence, enraptured by the princess's beauty. She had short blonde hair and heart neckline green and black striped dress that complimented her curves nicely. John felt heat spread across his cheeks and he hid his face. "I'm sorry. I'm clumsy and awkward. You're gorgeous. Wait, what?" He stumbled.

The princess laughed and shook her head. "It's quite fine. Might I ask your name?" John ran a hand through his hair to spiff it up a bit before replying, "John. Prince John Watson of London, but just call me John. Or Watson." The princess chuckled a bit under her breath. "So you're the Prince John. It is my honor." she bowed, "I am Princess Mary Morstan of the Southern Isles."

"Would you, um, would you like to dance?"

Mary grinned warmly and nodded. He led her over to the center of the dance floor where they swayed in time with the strings. John felt like he was riding cloud nine. There he was, dealing with the biggest depression streaked of his life, and now he's dancing with the most gorgeous woman he'd ever set eyes on and he was genuinely happy. Mary cleared her throat while they danced. "So, John, what was it like growing up here in London? I mean, with Sherlock and all."

John pondered how he should answer the question and decided the truth was probably the best course of action. "I'm not really close to Sherlock. I mean I was when we were really little. We used to be so close to each other, and then one day he just shut me out. Well, he shut everyone out, but at the time it just felt like me."

He looked up from where his eyes had made their sights on the floor and returned them to Mary. Her eyes had tears in the corners. "I get it. I know what it's like to have doors slammed in your face. There's so many people at the palace and I'm only eighth in line, so no one has time for me."

The corners of John's lips pulled into a smile. "Maybe we can just be lonely together."

Clapping rose from the people standing around the dance floor, marking the end of the song and John stood. He didn't know how to continue from what he'd just said. Maybe Mary would change the topic. Thankfully, Sherlock showed up.

"Are you enjoying your evening, Mary?" Sherlock queried.

Mary beamed. "You're not as rude as I've heard you were. I'm having a lovely time, thanks." She remarked with a passing glance to John.

"Mary, do you mind if I have a word with John? It won't take but a minute." Sherlock asked. Mary nodded and left to take a seat at one of the decorated tables.

"Sherlock, what the-"

"Tell me. Now." Sherlock demanded. John looked at him confused. "What do you want to know?"

"Your plan. I know you're nervous about something, and it's not the ball. You've been looking forward to this all day yesterday. I can here you through the wall. The fleeting smiles and inability to stand still are points of nervousness. It isn't about Mary as you jumped at the opportunity to focus on something instead of whatever it is you're nervous about. Throughout the entire ball, you've continuously looked back towards me and quickly averted any eye contact or glance that lasted longer than a second. That tells me that it has something to do with me, and I want to know."

John's look of bewilderment tripled. He'd heard him all this time?

"You've heard-"

"Yes."

"But, all those times when I was a teen, I'd ask for you to come out…"

"I heard you."

John's nervousness was replaced by an incredible feeling of warmth for a split second before it returned. He gulped before answering. "I have something to tell you."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "Go on."

The heat returned to his cheeks before John could say anything in response. "Well, uh, I-I had this, uh, this plan about after the coronation. I'm, uh, declining. Tomorrow I'm not going to be a prince anymore. I'm just going to ride out with the nights, and-and find who I am." John managed to stammer out. It felt…good. It felt really good to tell someone.

Sherlock stared down at John and said nothing. John was just getting creeped out when Sherlock suddenly turned away from him with a sharp _"No."_

"I beg your pardon?" John asked.

"I said no." Sherlock replied simply without turning back to John.

"Sherlock, it isn't your call to make! I'm doing it whether you approve or not." John spat.

Sherlock turned back to John, rage and fear flowing through his face. "I won't allow it. You can't leave, John."

John felt his anger boil in his stomach. "Well, tough, Sherlock! I'm leaving tomorrow, and nothing you can do or say will stop that!"

"I won't have it." Sherlock bit out and turned to leave, but John caught his glove.

"Sherlock, stop! Why are you doing this?" John yelled.

Sherlock stood where he was and a rare flick of vulnerability sat on his features. "You can't leave, John. Everyone always abandons me."

John scoffed. "Abandons you? What about me, Sherlock?"

Sherlock was now looming over John, casting dark shadows all around him. "You had the option to leave the palace, John! You made friends, possibly found girlfriends. I haven't been outside in over fifteen years! The only people I had were our parents, Harry, and Mycroft. They all left me, and you're all I have left. You can't go, John."

He let the snarl escape his lips before spitting back. "You _have_ Mycroft, Sherlock. He's here for you now. I hope he takes care of you while I'm gone."

"Don't abandon me, John!" Sherlock pleaded.

John was too cross to consider how desperate Sherlock was not to have him walk out and leave. The venom was released before his mind processed how much ammo they held. "I wasn't the one who did the abandoning!"

Sherlock's rage had transferred from his face and straight into his eyes, making the icy bite of them seem to glow. The temperature of the room dropped sharply and a heavy wind brewed inside. Ice formed on the tables and frost spread to cover the windows. John never once took his face off of Sherlock. He was too upset to notice anything else.

"You can't leave me!" Sherlock screamed, sending ice straight from his gloved hands and all around him, covering the floor near both of them with steadily growing icicles. The guests stood in shock and some let out a chorus of 'black magic' and 'sorcery' directly behind Sherlock. John's jaw dropped.

Ice.

Sherlock had locked himself in because of-

He looked up at the other man and saw the terror running through his eyes instead of rage. John stammered to find words to say. "Sherlock, I-"

Sherlock shook his head and bolted. John ran after Sherlock to the front doors of the palace and watched him get floundered by other townspeople. He watched as Sherlock's stress built up and suddenly the fountain, along with the small stream that flowed through the front garden, was frozen solid. John chased after Sherlock when he ran once more and halted when he realized he couldn't catch up.

The wind rose and howled. The temperature steadily dropped as Sherlock ran faster towards the mountains, stepping over the river and making it freeze.

They were trapped.

John collapsed into the already snow covered ground and watched Sherlock turn into a speck running towards the mountain.

"What have I done?" he whispered.


	7. Chapter 7

**To be clear, yes, there was a reason John did not remember meeting Mary earlier, and it'll be expanded upon when the POV returns to John. For now though, we have Sherlock's ice palace and a look at his thoughts. This chapter's relatively short. I don't particularly like POV switches in stories, but this felt necessary (and I wanted to write his big architect moment c'mon son). There are some language variations and I apologize for any mistakes I made in them. I had to use google translate and will provide the translation below. If I botched anything, let me know and I'll fix it.**

* * *

Snow crunched under Sherlock's feet as he scaled the icy planes of the mountains. He stood looking at the white slopes around him that sparkled with the promise of an eternal freeze. The panic he'd felt earlier receded, as the ice seemed to come to life and respond to every molecule of his body. He looked around at the winter wonderland surrounding him and a smile grew in place of his shock. London was below him, and all he could think about was just how free he was.

"Ich bin frei." Sherlock whispered as he walked through the trees, running his hand over the dark bark, which contrasted with the frost creeping over it.

He removed his gloves and tossed them away. It was always silly to think the gloves would help. The past years being locked away with those stupid cloth gloves should've told him it was all a poorly executed front. Sherlock's gaze spanned the crisp snow and watched his footprints disappear, as if the mountain was wiping his slate clean.

"Snön är vacker och vit på berget ikväll. Inga fotspår att se." He remarked as he continued on his path up and through the rocky plains. The wind howled loud and Sherlock could feel the connection of himself through it. With a flick of his hand, snow flurried from it, spiraling in the air in a brilliant display of white and some light blue. He smiled in wonder. Never in his twenty years of life had he ever dreamed of having this much power or capability. The world was truly his to take. Sherlock huffed in determination. "Mycroft may have London, but o meu reino é o illamento."

The snow flowed through the air as his language flowed from one and into another. All those years of being alone limited what he could do to entertain himself. Really, it had came down to two things: lifting all of the foreign language books from Mycroft's old bedroom, and finding logical explanations for his powers. Sherlock had always favored the latter, as it provided a way for him to find an answer to undo his curse or find a way to control it. He did so hate feeling out of control.

Frustration built in his veins as he thought of all those times when he'd been so close to figuring it all out, only to lose it because there'd come a knock from the other side of his door and a young boy's voice that had called out to him in pain. Sherlock felt all the guilt, pain, frustration, and panic flow into his fingertips. Throwing both hands towards the sky, an ice cascade shot into the air, breaking upon its fight with gravity, and sprinkling the area around him with small snowflakes.

Sherlock took in a deep breath and remembered the words Mrs. Hudson had always calmed his storm with. "Bırak gitsin." He whispered and released another flash of ice from his left hand. Courage was blooming in his stomach and his smile warmed. "Bırak gitsin." Sherlock repeated, louder this time with a bigger blast from his right hand.

One glance down at the town currently being covered in a thick blanket of snow was enough for him. "Deje que la tormenta rabia encendido." He murmured at the people below and turned, continuing to roam through the forest. A flick of his left hand brought icicles down from one tree, and a swirl of his right hand created a mini flurry with a snowman at the centre that looked similar to the Prince John Watson when he was seven. The formality of the day was weighing down on Sherlock, as was his cloak dragging through the snow, and with a snap of the button, the cloak was whisked away from his shoulders and off into the night. Sherlock could already feel his stress and worries floating away, as if attached to that heavy cloak.

The forest thinned out and revealed an icy clearing that entailed a cliff above him. Undeterred, Sherlock gathered power in his fingertips and released his strongest, controlled blast yet, creating a beautifully crafted spiral staircase and sending ice up the side of the face of the cliff. "No xaq, oo innaba xumaan, xeerarka no ii. Waxaan ahay free!" Sherlock yelled. On its own, the ice started carving intricate snowflake designs that mirrored the ones on his door and included patterns similar to those found on some of his art back in his room. The stairs were covered with a thick layer of snow from its fresh carving, and a split with both arms revealed the transparent steps below.

He stepped onto the first one and placed two fingers on the handrail, clearing all snow from the staircase in a wave as he gracefully climbed the stairs. At the top of the stairs, there was a wide space, an easy spot for building. Sherlock's smile spread from ear to ear as he pictured his mind palace coming to life. A stomp of his foot shot ice in all directions and he heaved his hands to lift the ice and create walls. The wind spiraled in a waltz with the snow, forming blueish ice walls that rose in time his motions. Sherlock's palace rose until it was tall enough to overlook all of the land below it, and he focused his efforts on the inside. The first floor was sleek and had no carvings to be seen, except for the ones covering the enormous front doors. Slick stairs covered in a bit of snow for traction were off to the right of the front foyer, leading up to were his own personal chamber would be. The second floor was complete with a spacious landing before branching off into different rooms, including a specially carved room for him and a lab complete with all different forms of equipment and niches for samples. Further back in the landing was a small staircase that lead to the in between floor. In truth, the specific design of that room was for if he had visitors. And by visitors, he means if John decides not to leave with the knights.

His smile died a little at the thought of him leaving. He couldn't leave, not when he'd just got John back. A simple snap of his fingers sent ice up and through the third floor, clearing space for a high ceiling ballroom and a large observatory complete with shelves to house his extensive library. A porch grew off of the top level, leading out into the stars of the sky. Off the roof, decorative ice stemmed and spun, weaving intricate points and making the palace appear larger and more daunting.

Once all the floors were complete, he put the final touches on the areas around him, including a mock fireplace on the second floor, a carved periodic table on the wall of his room, and a fragile ice skull he'd named Billy. A snowflake grew in the ice below his feet on the floor of the ballroom and he felt the last of his ice curse flowing in his veins. He couldn't live in a specially carved ice palace to start his new life in his monkey suit of coronation formal attire.

"Fortiden er i fortiden." Sherlock whispered and sent the ice crawling up his legs and through the fabric, changing the fabric from the soft cotton to a chilly woven ice. His whole outfit had been refitted and changed entirely. He wore a light blue shirt with a matching blue and silver laced vest on top, along with light blue trousers. Sherlock felt the ice work at making him a new cloak, transparent as normal ice, but as iridescent as the palace around him. The ice swirled up through his clothes and in through his hair, combining with the wind and trimming most of the dark braid off. All that was left was a short mop of curls on his head and he ran a hand through them before leaving out the large windows that led onto the porch. Sherlock gazed over the treetops and a smirk found its home on his face when he looked down over London.

_No more forced isolation. No fear, no worry. Only me._

With that final thought, he turned back in the way he came. The doors shut at the snap of his fingers, revealing to whomever may pass that this piece of art belonged to the prince, with the trademark SH covering the outside, similar to the one found on all of his works.

Inside the palace, Sherlock paced back and forth, feeling the breeze he'd created rustle the curls on his head. With a swift calculation of how fast it'd take someone from the town to come after him, more than likely it'd be John, Sherlock created a light blue, heavy overcoat. He chuckled at the fog coat in his arms and made his way down the stairs to wait for his guest to arrive.

* * *

**Languages, phrase, then translation:**

**German: "Ich bin frei." "I am free." or "I'm free."**

**Swedish: "Snön är vacker och vit på berget ikväll. Inga fotspår att se." "The snow is beautiful and white on the mountain tonight. Not a footprint to see."**

**Galician: "Mycroft may have London, but o meu reino é o illamento." "Mycroft might have London, but my kingdom is isolation."**

**Turkish: "Bırak gitsin." "Let it go."**

**Spanish: "Deje que la tormenta rabia encendido." "Let the storm rage on."**

**Somali: "No xaq, oo innaba xumaan, xeerarka no ii. Waxaan ahay free!" "No right, no wrong, no rules for me. I am (I'm) free!"**

**Danish: "Fortiden er i fortiden." "The past is the past." or "The past is in the past."**


	8. Chapter 8

**It's been a while since I updated, I know, but I've been working on a book and so far it's sapped most of my creative energy. Plus, I have terrible time management skills.** **Big thing, I updated the rating on the story because this chapter involves some strong language from John (I mean, who can blame him? He kind of just pushed his best friend into isolation after just getting him back.) **

**This chapter takes place from John's perspective once more. His perspective is immediately following chapter 6, so he has no idea what Sherlock's just created (yet, anyway).**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

John sat still on the ice, letting the chill bite at his skin. He was numb. All he'd ever wanted was Sherlock back in his life, and he'd blew it. _Just like every other stupid thing in his life._ The crunch of snow came from behind him, but he made no movement to turn around and see whom it was.

"What happened? John! Where's Sherlock!" The frightened voice of Mycroft cut through John's numb state. Everything came spiraling back to him. Mycroft, the coronation, Mary…_Mary_. He knew that name sounded familiar. Mary _certainly_ hadn't been who she'd said she was. At least, she wasn't the _princess _she'd said she was. That afternoon with Greg and his two friends all those years ago…there was no use remembering such trivial things now. All that mattered was Sherlock. John shook as he tried to pick himself off the ground and turned to Mycroft. "He…he got upset and froze the place. The town. He froze the town. And now he's ran."

The King looked at John, worry clearly lining his face as he tried to fake a calm demeanor for the sake of the citizens. "Where did he run? John, you have to tell me so I can go after him." Mycroft said sternly. "He's off in the mountains," he began, "but I won't let you go, Mycroft. Someone has to stay here and keep the villagers calm. You're king, you stay. I'm just a prince who fucked up big time and is going to fix the mess." John began running towards the frozen land until someone else who'd followed behind him grabbed his arm. When he turned, he saw Sally Donovan, that seamstress, and a few other people behind her.

"John, just leave him!" Sally shouted over the roaring winds. "I can't!" John shouted back. "Then I'm coming with you! It's suicide to go out alone!" Lestrade piped up from the back. John watched as Greg pushed his way through the crowd to stand by his side. "You might have left me for isolation, John, but you're still my best mate; I hope I'm still yours." John smiled at Greg before the realization of the first half of his sentence hit him. "Greg, I'm not going to allow yourself to get killed. Stay and help Mycroft." He begged. Lestrade scoffed at him. "Fat chance of that. I'm not letting you out of my sight until we get Sherlock back."

John bit back his plea for him to stay and turned to run, knowing Lestrade would follow. Sally's hand stopped him once again, and John turned for the last time. "Just leave him, John! He left you!" She spat. Tears spilled from the corners of John's eyes as he thought about the abandonment so long ago and how it'd been pure hell for him. Leaving Sherlock in a state like that, toppled with panic and fear, was heartbreaking for him. Regardless of the poor choices Sherlock had made, his best friend needed him, and he was going to be there. "I-I just…I can't!" John cried as he ran once more into the mountains with Lestrade on his tail.

The ice made it difficult for John to continue running for extended periods without slipping. He tripped on a root and Lestrade caught him just in time. Guilt and fear were coursing through his veins, fogging any reason he'd been trying to rely on. John panted and struggled to stay upright, only redeemed by a singsong voice coming from the distance. "Johnny! Wait up!" The voice called.

Lestrade turned towards the approaching figure first. The young man was climbing through the snow at great speed and decked entirely in black. John wiggled out of Greg's grip and squinted at the man. "I'm sorry," he called, "but I can't be responsible for losing someone else. Please, just, go back to the village." The man approaching didn't respond and pushed through until he was standing close to the two.

"I'm sorry, John, but I can't. Sherlock was once my friend too."

John tried to force his brain back to focusing. Once his friend too? He knew this man? Well, his voice did sound familiar…

"James?"

The other man smiled. "Jim, actually. Prince Jim Moriarty of the Southern Isles." He held out his hand for him. John eagerly took his hand and gave a firm shake. "It's been a while."

Moriarty's face turned solemn. "I made a promise to you and Sherlock a long time ago. I intend to keep it."

_"I will always be here for you two. You're my best friends, and I'd follow you anywhere, no matter how dangerous." The six-year-old Jim had said._

John smiled up at him with tears stinging the corners of his eyes. "Thank you."

The three of them headed further through the snow, approaching a small outpost. Lestrade pushed his way through the wind and held the door for the other two members. John stood near the fireplace towards the entrance, embracing the flicker of light and heat emanating from it.

"Yoo-hoo!"

John turned towards the direction of the call. A man with a beard waved to him from behind the front desk. "Big summer blowout!"

Moriarty walked towards the desk and gently set two hands down on the wooden desk. "Have you seen anyone going up the mountain? Possibly the prince?" He asked.

The smaller man shook his head. "No one's crazy enough to be out in the storm except you three."

Slowly, he approached the taller man, and John placed a hand on his shoulder. "Let me handle it."

Jim stepped away and allowed John to talk. "Listen," he began, "do you, um, do you know what it's like, to push someone you love away so much that there comes a day when they leave and you never knew how much they meant to you?" The other man nodded. "I lost my best friend today, and I just want him to know that he's still loved, even if I pushed him away. Please, would you help me?" John pleaded.

After a stretched out silence, the other man sighed and nodded. He stood with a bow. "Anderson, at your service. You want to know if there was anyone on the mountain earlier, eh? Well, I can tell you there was one person after the storm began. The crazy bugger was heading for the tallest mountain. He had a black braid and was fairly tall. Quite unusual for the village folk."

"That's him. Thanks." John smiled. He turned back to the others to yell. "C'mon. We have a long journey ahead of us."

Lestrade and Jim followed the Prince back into the flurry outside. "To Baker Mountain." John called to his party.

"What? Are you _insane_? Baker Mountain? In _this_ storm? It's suicide, John!" Greg responded.

John turned to him, stubbornness etching his movements. "Are you coming with me, or not?" He queried, voice taking on a frightening calmness.

Lestrade shook his head and sighed. "Yeah, of course I am."

"Good, now let's head up into the woods."

John marched through the crisp snow and into the entrance of the trees, glancing around the looming, dark trees.

"These woods are creepier than I remember them." Lestrade remarked.

"Do you remember when we used to come out here, John?" Jim asked.

John stilled, the memory of that summer flooding back to him. He was six, Sherlock was four, and Jim was five. They'd all come into the woods with John's papa and he'd let them have a run around the forest until it was time for supper. Sherlock had started a game of make believe, where he was a pirate who sailed the roaring waves. John pretended he was Sherlock's first mate and an invalided knight. Jim had said he wanted to be the villain, or at least the commander of his own ship. They'd had a pretend war with each other that was tiresome, stretching for well over a few hours, and ended with all three of them too tired to eat supper when they were called back. He'd never forgotten the words he'd told Sherlock in the middle of their war. They'd chilled him to his core. Just the way he'd said them with a stoic look and a serious air. _I'll burn the heart out of you, Sherlock Holmes._

"Yeah, I remember." John murmured.

The wind howled in the branches, swaying them back and forth in a small dance. Vines that had once hung down green from the trees were covered in frost, catching the light of the moon and refracting it into a beautiful concoction of shimmering silver. John was entranced. Never had he seen something more beautiful or threatening in his entire life. He was sure that it was symbolic of something, but what exactly it symbolized eluded him.

_All this time, Sherlock had been hiding such beauty within closed walls. If only he'd known what he could be capable of._

A rustling came a few feet ahead of them.

_Sherlock?_

Slowly, John made his way over to the part in the dark barked trees. If Sherlock was there, he'd have to approach carefully as not to scare him off again. A small pond had been frozen over, but nothing seemed to be stirring. No creature, nor human. He frowned. John had been so sure he'd heard something from this direction. Lestrade and Jim came up behind him. "You're not crazy," Lestrade stated, "I heard it too."

A small tug came at the base of his shirt and he looked down at a snow recreation of his younger self. He crouched down to eye level with the small snow creature.

"Did Sherlock make you?" John asked, fighting back the storm of emotion that paralleled the storm swirling around him.

His tiny, recreation nodded and looked at him with big blue eyes.

"I'm John Watson. Do you want to have a snowball fight?" The snowman responded.

The dam holding back John's emotions burst, releasing the tsunami of guilt, depression, abandonment, and fear all at once. He choked out a sob and almost broke into pieces on the ice floor in front of his seven year old self.

_Sherlock had never given up on you._

The tears streamed down, hitting the snow and cooling into ice crystals. That day they had the snowball fight. He'd called Sherlock a monster, which isn't true.

_The only monster here is me._

John heard a crunch of snow and Greg plopped himself next to him.

"John. John, it's all right. It's not your fault. We'll fix this." Lestrade reassured.

"Don't you see? It is my fault!" John snapped at him. "All this time, I'd thought-"

"-he'd abandoned you." Jim finished. "He's right, John. This isn't your fault."

The world was spinning again in a mix of guilt, fear, and doubt. He felt his chest becoming heavy with pressure and it became harder to breath. "I pushed him! I've pushed him since I was seven! Now, I'd wanted to leave him for my own selfish reasons! I'd never _once_ given thought to why Sherlock was hiding! I'd never once considered that he'd do this for me because I'd been blinded _by my own selfish views of wanting him to stay with me_! It'd always been _me_. No wonder he ran! It's my own fault, and I shouldn't take both of you down in the destructive storm of my own mistakes!" John yelled.

He sprang from the floor, pushing Greg away and running from Moriarty. The wind whipped his face and he could hear the calling of his other two party members from the frozen pond, but it didn't matter to him. They can't follow him. Not this time.

John stumbled over his own feet and collapsed into a snow bank and the root of one of the tallest trees in the woods. He sunk into the clammy cushion and choked on his own breath, feeling the world close in around him.


	9. Chapter 9

**I apologize for my sporadic updates. I'm suffering a lot of personal issues right now and it's threatening me to actually get pulled out of school. Anyway, this chapter's hefty with hurt, so caution.**

* * *

"John! Where are you? Are you all right? What happened back there?" Lestrade's voice rang through the woods. John sank deeper into his snow seat, wishing away the approaching man. He settled on waiting for Greg to pass, chilling him out with silence.

"John! Stop this, now!" Greg called out, an air of assertion flowing through each word. He'll make a fine inspector- detective…detective inspector?- one day. John shot up from the lump of ice to run, snow crunching under each foot, and wormed his way through the woods into the snowy plane before the cliff. He stood motionless, gazing in awe at the beautifully sculpted ice in front of him. The gleam on the ice of the stairs drew John's eyes up until he saw the crafted SH on the front.

_Sherlock._

Newfound confidence was storming through his veins, threatening his body into doing something stupid. John's legs were moving without his consent, and he found himself hurling towards the steps when arms gripped his abdomen, bringing all of his confidence to a halt. Panting, he struggled out of the grip and readjusted his shirt. Through lashes covered in gathered snowflakes, Greg's shape appeared in the blizzard.

"John, are you mad? You're going to get yourself killed!" Lestrade shouted. "I have to go after him, Greg! He's my friend!" John responded.

"I get that, I really do. There's nothing I wouldn't do for my friends, but you _really_ need to think this through. How are you going to do this?"

John snaked his arms around his torso and furrowed his brow, thought creasing his features.

"I'll just…talk to him. He can be a reasonable person."

A rustling from one of the ice drenched bushes sounded, grabbing the attention of both men. John didn't take his eyes off the bush until the creature came out, revealing the snowman from earlier.

"Are you going to see Sherlock? Can I go? I bet he'll have a snowball fight with me!" The snowman squealed.

Greg casted shifty eyes at John, obviously trying to determine whether he was also seeing the snowman, and chuckled a bit at the other man's confusion. Obviously, Greg had seen the snowman earlier with the traveling party, so he assumed Lestrade had written it off as his imagination. John shuffled forward until he was crouched down in front of the mini him.

"Let's go see Sherlock, yeah?"

He threaded his fingers in the snowman's and stood, grip tight on the other's hand. "You can come along on one condition: we're calling you Hamish so we don't say 'John' and get confused, okay?"

The snowman nodded furiously and grinned up at the older him. "Okay, but who are you?"

"I'm John."

"Like me! I see why you want to call me Hamish now. It makes _much_ more sense. And who's the weird donkey looking thing?"

John burst out laughing as Greg crinkled his nose at the innocent insult.

"Oi, I'm not a donkey! My name's Greg, by the way."

"Hi, Greg! Do you like warm hugs?"

John laughed harder at the flush spreading over Greg's face, and watched through teary eyes as Hamish launched himself at Lestrade and wrapped him in a warm embrace. Greg laughed awkwardly and unwrapped the snowman's hands from his upper legs.

"John, what are you going to say to Sherlock when you're up there?"

Hamish skipped over to the first step of the stairs, waiting for the two to follow him. John rolled his eyes at Greg and made his way over to the stairs, placing his left foot on the first step. "You know, I'll just tell him to unfreeze the town. Now's not really the time for a reconciliation."

Lestrade huffed as John made his way up a few more steps before responding. "What if he tries to hurt you?"

John winced, memories flooding back to him of the years of pain Sherlock had already inflicted on him. What was one more crack to the already broken heart? He turned to face Greg, pain clouding the blue in his eyes. "He's my best friend, and he'd never try to hurt me." John lied.

The smoothness of the ice steps allowed John to spin on his toes, and he ran. Each icy blue step faded below him as his sight could only focus on the intricate SH of the door. Hamish stayed ahead of him, waddling slightly and falling every few seconds. The doors got closer and suddenly they were looming, forcing John into reconsidering his initial plan. One miniscule step after another, he was standing within reaching distance of the door.

"Go on, knock." Hamish ushered.

John stood silent. What if Sherlock doesn't want to see him? What if he made this beautiful palace just to get away from him? What if he knocks on the door, and- and what? Sherlock doesn't answer? Of course he won't answer. Over fifteen _years_ he'd been knocking with no answer. Why would Sherlock break the trend now?

"Do you need me to teach you to knock?" Hamish asked, confusion etching his words.

Reluctantly, John rasped his knuckles on the delicate eyes, hoping his knocking was loud enough to be heard by Sherlock wherever he was in the palace. With a slight scraping sound, the doors opened, revealing the work of the hidden genius to him.

_They opened._

The rising sun set an ethereal glow around the foyer, lighting the ice in beautiful shades of yellow, orange, pink, and purple. John stood breathless as the sheer art and detail of the palace flooded his senses. He was so engrossed in the carvings around him; he didn't notice Sherlock appear at the top of the steps.

"Hello, John."

Startled, John looked up the stairs for the source of the unique baritone voice. His eyes blew wide in shock at the sight of his best friend before him. There stood Sherlock, draped in amazingly well fitting turquoise clothes. A little too tight on his chest, as the buttons were straining, not that John was complaining. A mop of perfectly tasseled curls that were slightly windswept had replaced Sherlock's original, elegant braid. It was edgy, but it fit Sherlock. It took the other man to begin chuckling slightly for John to take the hint to respond.

"Sherlock, you look- wow. You, uh, you look amazing."

The other man smiled at him, eyes crinkling around the edges as he descended the stairs. Sherlock stood at the base of the stairs holding out the coat in his right hand and motioned towards the second floor with his other hand. John stood still, dumfounded and processing what had just happened. He felt the warmth of the coat wrapping around him as Sherlock led him to the second floor.

Upstairs held the appearance of a regular room, which looked fairly comfortable, but Sherlock didn't stop there and proceeded to the third floor with John following eagerly behind. At the top of the stairs was the beginning of the wide expanse of the study Sherlock had created, complete with shelves fit for a library and tall doors that led outside. John gaped at the intricate work, both amazed and confused at how much detail the other man had managed to squeeze into the walls before he got there.

"What do you think?"

John looked over at the taller man. "Huh?"

"The palace. What do you think?"

"It's…fantastic, Sherlock. You're fantastic. I mean- you had the power to create something so beautiful all this time and you never told me- er, anyone. You never told anyone."

Another scrape came from the front door of the floor below them, drawing the attention of both men. Sherlock left first to go investigate who was coming in, followed shortly by John. They stood at the top of the steps, watching Hamish push his way through the doors that normally would've opened on their own. The snowman brushed off some of the excess ice shavings the door scrapping had caused and beamed up at the two of them.

"Hi, I'm John. Do you want to have a snowball fight?"

Sherlock stared, dumbfounded, by the snowman downstairs. The snow John swung his arms back and forth before clapping them once, realization dawning on him.

"Oh! I forgot! He-" Hamish pointed to John "-calls me Hamish so we don't get our names confused. I'm Hamish!"

John nodded down at the creature and searched the man next to him's face for any signs of thought, but there was none. It was as if Sherlock's brain had left and was taken over by shock, in need of a reboot. Eventually, Sherlock came back on line to respond.

"Wait, Hamish?" He turned to John. "You're calling him by your middle name?"

John nodded. Sherlock turned back to the snowman.

"Hamish, did I build you?"

"Uh huh."

"And you're alive?"

"Uh…I think so."

John watched Sherlock look into his hands, his smile widening. He decided now was a good time to address the situation of the storm, _especially_ while the man with power was happy.

"I was surprised the doors opened. Fifteen years and they never have." Venom had flicked off his words, drenched in the fowl connotation that he hadn't intended to spin on the words. John knew he should've set his feelings aside the minute he said those two sentences.

Sherlock's smile faltered, replaced by a pained expression.

"John, I-"

"No. No, don't- don't say anything. Now's not the time to discuss this. I came to talk to you about this storm."

Sherlock was silent. He returned into the study with the other prince following carefully behind. John waited for a response from the other man and was greeted by a hefty silence upon returning to the study.

"Come back, Sherlock. We- I. I need you. Please, just stop the storm and come back. You were so happy before the coronation! It can still be like that-"

"No, John. It can't."

John stared confused at Sherlock. _What was he doing? Why won't he be rational about this?_ His mind was spinning into thoughts just as irrational as he thought Sherlock was being.

"Why?"

He hadn't meant for the commanding and accusatory edge to leak into his words, but they had, and they'd clearly stung Sherlock. The other man turned to face away from John, breathing suddenly increased and voice breaking.

"It just can't."

"Sherlock, I won't let the people of London suffer this storm! Stop it, just stop it, now."

"John, there are just some things you don't-"

"-understand? You're right, Sherlock. I _don't_ understand. I'll _never_ understand since you never bother to tell me anything! Not _once_ have you _ever_ told me _anything_ that's gone on with you."

Sherlock winced, but decidedly didn't turn to face him.

"John, you said you weren't going to discuss this here."

John didn't dignify the other man's last statement with a response, instead walking towards the ice prince. Sherlock heard his footsteps and pulled out of the reach of John's grasp.

"It's _too late,_ Sherlock. It's too late for us, but not for them." He walked past the taller man to point out the open doors to the town within view. "We can still fix this. I won't let you treat the people down there just as coldly as you've always treated me!"

Sherlock whipped around violently to face John.

"Don't you see? I _can't_."

"What do you mean 'I can't'? _Obviously_ you've done it before, or else the palace in London would've been frozen over _years_ ago! Or was this power something that you stumbled upon _after_ you abandoned me."

"John, I can't control it. I've spent _fifteen years_ trying to control this- this _storm_ inside of me, and _I can't_. If I could, don't you think I would've returned all those years ago?"

Emotion had already drained from John, and all that was left was the shell of a man. He was the eye in the storm of a hurricane.

"I don't know anymore."

The pain that struck Sherlock's face was the worst one he'd seen yet, but John couldn't feel the twist of his own words. He could taste the venom dripping from their meaning, but he couldn't feel the blade he'd drove home into the other man. A blankness settled itself over Sherlock, building a wall separating his emotions from John.

"If that's how you feel, then leave."

"Not until you stop this storm."

Wind picked up through the room, whipping everything about and cutting through John's clothing, chilling him to the core. But John was stubborn and held his ground.

"You're going to have to do a lot better than that to get rid of me, Sherlock."

The study dropped a few degrees; ice shards began forming sharp spikes sticking off of the walls. The shards drew nearer, but John was determined to hold his ground.

"John, _please_. You're only making it worse."

John recognized the fear in Sherlock's voice reaching the same level from the coronation ball. He'd wanted to press Sherlock, sure, but he didn't want him to cave in on himself. Sure, he'd been hard on him, but nothing more than what the git who'd abandoned him at age seven deserved.

"Sherlock, don't panic. You can do this!"

"No, I can't! There's too much fear! You're not safe here, John!"

Sherlock had curled into himself, wrapping his arms around his torso and crouching a bit, as if he was trying to hide the bleeding from the wound of John's words earlier.

"I know you'd never hurt me, Sherlock!"

"You need to go. _Now_, John."

"Sherlock, look at me! Use my voice as a center. Control it. Control the storm."

Anger and frustration replaced Sherlock's blankness in a terrifying display mirrored by the icicles of the room as they took on a reddish tint.

"I can't!" Sherlock yelled, releasing ice shards in all directions from his body. John's eyes locked onto the shard heading towards him and could do nothing to stop its intended impact through his heart. The force of the ice passing through him was strong enough to fling him backwards, off his feet, and knock the wind out of him. He lay curled on the ground as he watched Sherlock look around the room before seeing John struck on the ground. Panic and fear returned to his face, stronger than he'd seen before as Sherlock turned to flee.

"Sherlock, please. I'm not going to leave without you."

The wall of emotion settled back into place between the two men, returning the glimpse of Sherlock's frozen heart, as he flicked his fingers to form a mass of ice, pulsating and quickly becoming a breathing monster.

"Yes, you will."

* * *

**I only have about four more chapters after this planned out, and then the sequel! Fair warning: the sequel is definitely not going to be safe for work.**


End file.
